She had turned her head away,
Now she turned it slowly back again.
It was crimson
And there were tears in her eyes.
She spoke now with all the childishness
Back in her voice:
“Why should I go away?
And be made to go away?
They don’t want me,
But I’ll stay.
I’ll stay and make everyone sorry.
I’ll make them all sorry.
Found poem from The Moving Finger by Agatha Christie
Marigolds are happy souls,
Faces turned to Heaven with smiles.
Mirroring like the moon the radiant sun,
Reflecting from ground upward.
This spring I added a single marigold
To each usual bed of
Purples and reds and whites,
Turmeric tinge of seasoning.
My garden is more joyful this year,
My heart along with it.
Thanks to the marigolds,
The happiest soul of flowers.
I didn’t sleep much.
I couldn’t, somehow, for thinking.
And every time I waked up
I thought somebody had me by the neck.
So the sleep didn’ do me no good.
By-and-by I says to myself,
I can’t live his way.
The sun was up so high when I waked,
That I judged it was after eight o’clock.
I laid there in the grass and the cool shade,
Thinking about things
And feeling rested and rather comfortable and satisfied.
I could see the sun out at one or two holes,
But mostly it was big trees all about,
And gloomy in there amongst them.
There was freckled places on the ground
Where the light sifted down through the leaves,
And the freckled places swapped about a little,
Showing there was a little breeze up there.
A couple of squirrels set on a limb and jabbered at me very friendly.
Found poems came from The adventures of Huckleberry finn, chapter 8.
Roads in state of disrepair,
Terns circling rain-created pond.
Auto junkyard on the right,
Why is it so hot out here?
Beeping horn from passing truck,
I left the stove on, I hope it’s fine.
A fire truck blares its siren;
I wonder where it is going.
A large branch falls from the huge oak tree,
Situated in my front yard.
It missed my car by a foot or more.
I really need a drink.
Papers scattered in the office,
No one to help them find their places.
A new novel started reading this morning.
New, but not really.
Feet hurt, but they’ve been worse.
There was a shark attack along the coast.
Lying in bed, mind won’t be quiet.
Mother’s birthday was two days ago.
Who knew life would be like this?
Original plans abandoned years ago.
The circus has closed, no shows anymore.
Vacation ends soon, too soon.
What powers this turbine?
Is there an ‘Off’ switch?
How do I harness its power?
Just as well. It’s mine.
Red lights, flashing to a metronome,
Warning drivers to come to a halt,
Lest they never make it home,
Causing accidents that were their fault.
They are not placed there for our harm,
Or to impede us in our own path.
So, a driver should approach them with great calm,
Pressing the brake, not creating great wrath.
Lights exist solely for our care,
To regulate safety along the road.
To prevent death and pain more than we can bear,
And to keep us from our eternal abode.
So, when in life, to a red light you come,
Do not breeze through, or ignore its sign.
Your future and safety and then some
Depend on stopping – not only yours, but also mine.
I offered friendship, but you refused.
Kindness and compassion were not returned.
You showed such things to many others,
But none was directed to me.
I pondered, attempting to discover why,
Blaming myself first for your coldness.
So, I applied more grace, only to find
You much more distant, cold, and uncaring.
Finally, communication stopped altogether.
I still assumed the fault lay in me.
We would pass, and you would not acknowledge.
Just kept your head down and went on your way.
Conversations ceased with others when I approached.
You turned and left me alone.
Still, I wondered, what had I done?
What had I said? Or failed to do?
After prolonged time, I concluded you simply were not interested
In me as a friend, a colleague, or an acquaintance.
It grieved me, and it was difficult to resolve.
I have, though still with the question of “why” unanswered.
I built a fire and enjoyed its glow one spring evening.
The coals, bright and red, mesmerized me in the dusk.
After a while, I replenished the fire with a fresh log,
Which caught quickly and augmented the flame.
Twice I refueled, giving me an abundance of reflection time.
I observed the logs being consumed,
And I pondered how life is similar.
We are consumed, like a log,
To provide what is needed in this world.
We go to work each day,
And we are consumed.
We provide for our family,
And we are consumed.
We meet needs of others,
And we are consumed.
We are different from logs, however.
Unlike a log, we regenerate,
Preparing to be consumed the next day
For the betterment of society,
For our family,
And for our business.
Yet every day, a small amount of us is permanently consumed,
Not to be replaced,
Until finally, after many years,
There remains nothing left to burn.
Hopefully, there remains in us enough life to enjoy.
If not, we simply fade into ashes like the finally-consumed log.
Beside the road on my morning walk,
Continuous litter polluted the view.
I felt dirty, though I touched it not,
Nor had I put it there myself.
I wondered why travelers in cars
Would think it permissible to throw their garbage
Out the window and on the ground,
Either to be collected by others,
Or more likely to remain there until it disintegrated
Years from now – or possibly never.
I later reflected on the litter in my life,
The things that leave me trashy, polluted, and unclean.
Some things I have left there on my own,
Discarded objects I hoped would dissolve,
But most likely merely to fester,
Their stench never quite going away.
Others have also littered my life,
Depositing their waste my way,
Things they had no desire to dispose of themselves,
Making me their polluted roadside.
Some people have difficulties dealing with litter.
They struggle to deal with what they have placed laid there themselves.
Dealing with what others have deposited can be a challenge as well,
Wrestling with memories, hurting words, feelings, and real pains.
Yet for our own peace, our own cleanness,
We must pick up the litter we can
And dispose of it in the right way.
Honeysuckle seems sweetest
On a late May walk
At half past seven.
The sun not yet driven away
The cool of the night,
And the odors waft upon the tender morning breeze,
Arresting the traveler in his journey.
Earth opens her perfumery in spring,
Lightening the hearts of men and women
Whose senses have waxed dull
By the dreariness of winter.
Fill the heart.
New resolve to create,
Inspired by longer, warmer days,
And the fragrances of blossoms.
But especially the sweetest honeysuckle.
I opened the door,
And my eyes plunged in
To a sea of glory.
Wave upon wave they swilled with delight.
A smile creased my lips,
Delight whispered to my spirit,
Thankfulness infused my soul.
Those breakers of blue against the foamy rich green.
The roar of the waters came suddenly
In the voices of cicadas and songbirds.
My morning swim during hot summer days,
Easing into fall, until the frost evaporates the sea.
Mariners take delight and comfort in the ocean,
Yet none experience such wonder as this.